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Episode
135 "You
guys have fun. I'm going to look into getting myself deported."
“This has got to be a sick joke.”
Morgan turned back to Vincent and Jason,
staring at both of them. “Guys, come on.” He said, standing on the
faded silver track of the train yard, standing amongst the giant
cross-section of boxcar travel. He looked back over his shoulder, his chin
brushing against the wide collar of his trench coat as it was pushed
against him in the morning wind. “It’s an old, non-descript, abandoned
warehouse.”
Like a giant square standing on the side of
the hill, the massive brick building stood at the edge of the single
direction the train yards had decided to never expand into. With broken,
faded glass for windows, the giant building looked larger than most of the
other buildings in the yards as it stared out over the train yards with a
haunted-house feel to it.
“I wish we were joking, man.” Vincent
said, scratching his black hair. “But this is where the cell is.”
“And again, I address, why don’t you guys
let the Atlanta knights handle this.” Morgan argued. “Atlanta is one
of the largest cities in the US. As I understand it, it’s got over a
dozen knights. How. The. Hell. Can you guys justify not letting them at
least take part in this?”
“He’s not here. You are.” Morgan
pressured. “You guys have to know why he’s so damn concerned about
keeping this quiet.”
“Because he’s afraid of an insider in the
knights.”
Morgan turned around at the familiar sound of
the thick gravel voice. The three knights that stood in the morning haze
of the training yards turned as Arthur led Lilah up the tracks between the
boxcars. Carrying three bags of fast food, the two came to stand with the
other three, completing the circle.
“You of people have to know that the Oath
of Chivalry is very subjective.” Arthur said, once he was close enough
to speak in a low tone. “You know that, as a knight is governed by
right, fair, just, and moral, he can be swayed by his perception of those
goals. As such, I have reason to fear that knights inside the functioning
teams of this operation may be traitors, withholding valuable information.
Or worse, even betraying our efforts to the Brotherhood.”
“Okay. In that vein, did it occur to you
that I might be a traitor?” Morgan asked.
“It did.” Arthur nodded. “But your
maintenance that you’re no longer a knight put some of that to rest.
However, the high likelihood meant that, at the very least, keeping you
within a blade’s reach is the best place.”
“I see.” Morgan nodded. He shrugged in
acquiescence. “Fair enough.”
Arthur watched Morgan for a moment, getting
an unyielding look back. But after a thought, Arthur turned away. “The
plan,” He said to the others. “Is simple. This is going to be a
simple, clean-out mission.” Vincent closed his eyes at those words.
“The warehouse is four floors.” Arthur
went on. “We all go in the first and make our way up. At each floor, we
leave one person. Lilah, you get floor one. Jason, floor two. Vincent, you
stay on three.”
“And I get to be get-away man. Again.”
Morgan added.
Arthur looked at Morgan, his draining humor
evident. “That’s right.” He finally said.
The door opened without any trouble, the
rusted knob turning with only a click. With a gentle push, the door pushed
open as if with the motion of a breeze. Cracking open, the light from the
outside world folded into the disaster that was the main office space. A
destroyed desk at the back of the room kept the company of the three
doorways, while the light shed out onto the disparaged trash all over the
floor, trash that had been left or had blown in through the crashed-open
windows.
A tiny mouth mirror turned around the edge of
the door, the reflection of a dark, intense eye caught in its gaze. The
mirror turned about before the door was pushed open again and Arthur was
led in by the tip of his shining katana. He looked back at the door,
motioning for the others to follow him in. Lilah was the first one in,
followed by Jason, then Vincent. The New York Arab stopped at the door and
closed it quietly before turning back to his team.
“Somewhere, over the rainbow, skies are
blue.” Morgan sang, his voice echoing off the bodies of the metal train
cars. In the early morning, even as the sun had yet to crest the ridge of
the hills that surrounded the train yard, the light of the sun drove away
the stars as the sky slowly turned from pink to blue.
“You know,” Morgan finally said after a
moment. “I really need to learn the rest of the words to that.”
It was a good swing. Vincent was sure of that
much. His body had moved on it’s own and for the first time, he whipped
around, the blade of his sword leading the way.
And as he turned, he felt the sharp edge
slice the air, the strange whistling sound that only swords can make
echoing beyond the movement, reverberating off the air like the crests of
the tide on the ocean. And as the air rushed over the edge of his curved
sword blade, he felt, not saw, the arc of damage.
And then, the resistance.
At first, it didn’t feel like much. Like
driving a knife blade into water, rather than into air. But slowly, there
was a crunch as metal hit something stronger than wood. The reverberation
struck Vincent’s hand through the sword like a viper biting his palm.
Almost as if he had been stabbed, Vincent had to clinch down to keep the
sword from vibrating out of his hands.
The body hit the floor.
Vincent stepped over the man’s body,
placing his foot on the man’s head. With a fast yank, he tore his
bloodstained sword blade free of the man’s body, ripping deep the hole
that already traveled halfway through his neck. He looked back around at
the other two knights. Arthur nodded to him and the two headed on.
“No stop signs, speed limit, no body’s
gonna slow me down . . .”
Morgan stopped. He looked around in
frustration. “Man, I write music for a living. Why can’t I remember
anything?”
“Eight guys already, Arthur.” Vincent
whispered as the two looked up the darkened stairwell. “How many more
are there?”
“The main force is supposed to be on the
third floor.” The leader of the knights said. He moved out onto the
stairs, looking up at the next door. “There should be about six more
guys, and then three or so more up on the top floor.”
“You know, I once heard these guys owned a
whole ski resort in Park City, Utah.” Vincent mused idly. Arthur stopped
and looked back at him. “What? I heard they do?”
“What does that have to do with
anything?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Just stay quiet.” Arthur finally said as
he made it to the third-floor door, with Vincent right behind him. He
reached for the handle, turning the knob so slowly; it took almost a
minute for him to complete the quarter of a turn. He checked with Vincent
once more, then cracked the door.
Ten men were waiting on the other side of the
door.
A fast rattling echoed off the very tops of
the train cars. Like rain falling from a drain to a sewer, the sound was
quick and subtly, but loud and immediately recognizable. And as the sound
rebounded repeatedly from one car to another, Morgan just shook his head.
“You guys suck, so much.” He grumbled
disappointed, but not surprised.
Arthur dove down the stairs, nearly vaulting
over Vincent as the two hit the second-floor landing. The bullet holes
that riddled the wooden door were soon across the wall as the weak,
plywood door was kicked in and more machine gun fire echoed off the walls.
Vincent got a running start and jumped onto
the railing of the stairs leading down to the first floor foyer. But he
stopped at the turn, standing with his head just beneath the foyer of the
third-floor. He waited, hearing the footsteps. Then, with a fast shove
straight up, he drove his katana into the wooden ceiling over his head.
A loud shriek echoed off and was joined by
machine gun fire echoing down into the floor. But Vincent was already
against the doorway, checking back at Arthur. But the knight nodded, then
dove out the broken window, landing on the metal fire escape.
Morgan sighed as the four knights came
running towards the car. “That sounded like it went real well.” He
said as they rushed towards him.
“Just drive!” Arthur yelled, already
jumping into the car’s passenger seat. |